


Paint

by StevieCass



Category: Supernatural
Genre: College!AU, M/M, art student!Cas, model!dean, paint!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StevieCass/pseuds/StevieCass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is an art student with a major art block. The problem solves itself when he hires a model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [there_is_a_bluebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_is_a_bluebird/gifts).



**November 22nd:**

It is decided. Castiel really needs to graduate art school, which means he needs to pass all classes, which means he needs to finish a painting, which means he really really needs to find his damn inspiration back.

He thinks about finishing that angel canvas he’d started a couple of months back, but there was a reason he left it in the drafts. He can work on the wings, he just can’t imagine anyone beautiful or handsome enough to deserve to be called an angel. He might have given up on church and religion, but his father had taught him that angels are really good looking, before he tried to teach him that his nature is sinful and probably damned to hell. Castiel has decided to keep only one of those teachings to mind, but the problem still remains: he needs to draw a very pretty angel and he has no family supporting him for another few months of art school.

He asks for advice, and Missouri, his teacher, tells him to get a model to help him, reminding him that a little work with a model never harmed anyone. She helps him put an ad in the local paper, and they send the email together.

A little part of Castiel really doesn’t want to meet the person who will agree to pose naked for a guy that wants to draw someone with wings.

**November 28 th:**

Nobody has answered the ad yet, and Castiel is borderline panicking, borderline bored as hell. He’s finished everything else for this semester, and he’s doing some extra work for his classes (they told him he couldn’t finish illustrating a children’s book in two weeks, proved _them_ wrong), but his painting is still untouched. He’s tried making something else, and he’s pleaded Charlie to pose for him, she shouldn’t be ashamed, they’re both gay, and he’ll pose for her too, he swears he will. Castiel doesn’t know if it was his desperate look or his flushed cheeks, but Charlie laughed it off and left for her sculpting class, wishing him good luck.

When Castiel takes a break from charcoal drawing, he realises his clothes and his hands and his face and probably his underpants too are all black, so he decides to take a shower. When he comes out, he draws again until nightfall.

When he sets the alarm for tomorrow morning, he realises he’s missed three calls from an unknown number. It’s already 3 am so Castiel lets it go.

**November 29 th:**

Castiel decides to call the unknown number in the first break from class. He finds himself arguing about whether putting a toilet seat in an art exhibition in the beginning of the 19th century can be considered art or not, and realises he’s missed his chance.

In the second break, he decides to eat.

When he’s finished from class, he realises he’ll have to talk to a stranger, so he counts the few coins in his pocket and buys a pack of cigarettes on his way home. It’s been a while, so he stops again to buy a lighter. He smokes two on his way home, coughing, ridiculously unused to this, and decides he doesn’t have time to eat. He makes a cup of coffee and waits until the next o’clock to call the number.

He doesn’t call.

**December 3d:**

Castiel has run out of excuses now. He’s missed another call from the number, and he’s used up every possible reason not to make contact with a stranger. He’s smoked the whole package and promises himself to quit three times before he buys a new package. He buys a new one and smokes the first cigarette before he musters the courage to call the unknown number.

Castiel almost hangs up when he hears the voice in the other end, but it’s just the voicemail.

“Hey, you’ve reached Dean Winchester. I’m probably busy right now. You know what to do.”

Castiel hears the beep and clears his throat. “Um. Hey. My name’s Castiel Milton. You called me a couple of days ago. Maybe more than a couple. Anyway. I don’t think I know who you are. Are you a model? Because if you’re a model and you called for my ad –“ Castiel curses under his breath. If the guy’s not a model, that sounded completely wrong. He tries not to bite his fingernail because he a) needs all the voicemail time he’s got left, and b) he’ll probably get some chemical poisoning from the oil paint on it. “I’m an art student, I’m looking for a model. That’s what I meant,” he clarifies. “Anyway. Please tell me who you are.” He hopes the message isn’t as ridiculous as he thought as he leaves his number for that Dean guy to find. He turns off his phone in embarrassment and groans helplessly as he collapses on his bed, face down, between the crumbled papers and colour pencils.

**December 4 th:**

It’s Saturday, and it takes Castiel a bit longer to get up. He mostly doesn’t want to turn on his phone. It’s 11.30 when he finally gets up and remembers that his sister Anna usually calls him on Saturdays, so he takes the phone with him in the pathetic corner of his studio apartment that serves as the kitchen and turns it on as he makes a lot of coffee. He’d say “too much coffee” if there were such a thing.

He’s only in his second cup of coffee, his first cigarette, and his second episode of Art Attack for the day (hey, he likes the 90’s, sue him), when his phone rings. He is way too relaxed to think of any other possibility than Anna calling.

“Yeah,” he answers and his voice sounds like he’s been eating gravel and drinking cement for the past couple of months or so. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hello?”

_“Hey, is that Casteel Milton?”_

It takes a couple of seconds for Castiel to realise that deep voice can’t belong to his sister. “Um. Yes. I mean, no. It’s _Castiel_ Milton. Who is this?”

_“Sorry, dude, you’ve got one hell of a name. Um, my name’s Dean Winchester? I called you, then you called me and left me a message, now I’m calling you back.”_

Castiel almost drops his cup of coffee; the only reason he holds it up straight is because there are _drawings_ on the floor, he can’t afford to spill fluids on them. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember the phone calls. Uh, why – why did you call me in the first place?”

 _“I thought you were looking for a model to pose for you?”_ Dean asks uncertainly. _“I mean, I’ll get it if you’ve given the job to someone else already, but –“_

“No, no, I haven’t,” says Castiel quickly. “Do you want to meet somewhere and talk about it?”

 _“Yeah, sure, that’d be great,”_ says Dean. _“Gimme a time and a place.”_

Castiel tells Dean to meet him in the café by the name of “Trick and Treat” that’s right across the street from his school, is owned by his cousin Gabriel, and incidentally, its name is only funny in October. They arrange to meet at 3 o’clock for coffee. Castiel really hopes this guy’s pretty and likeable enough to be his model, but he also wishes this guy is fictional and therefore will not demand any human contact, so he doesn’t get his hopes up. He decides to pretend this is just a normal day and he spends it practicing his building drawing skills.

At ten to three, Castiel is already sitting in a stall and is ignoring Gabriel’s teasing about a date by keeping his head low and his eyes fixed on his book. He hopes Dean will be enough model-like to be recognised when he enters the café, because yeah, Castiel totally forgot to ask Dean what he looks like. Typical.

Castiel has only started to realise he doesn’t understand a word he’s reading, when someone sits opposite to him and folds his arms on the table. Castiel looks up, and he guesses he once learnt how to form full sentences, but for now he keeps his mouth shut, because he knows that it will take him a few moments for something other than vowels to come out of it.

The guy sitting just a few inches away from him is gorgeous in every way, and Castiel doesn’t think he can handle it. He definitely looks the model-type, with his light hair and his amazing green eyes and his damn freckles under his cold-flushed skin and his tall, slender body and his full lips and his damn smile, and Castiel wishes that the guy in front of him isn’t Dean Winchester, otherwise he’s screwed.

“You’re Castiel, right?” the guy asks and Castiel swallows a frustrated whimper. “The guy behind the counter told me you are him.” He gives Castiel his hand. “I’m Dean.”

“Castiel. Obviously,” murmurs Castiel, shaking Dean’s hand. His sweater’s sleeve is still covering his hand and he wonders if Dean will mind, but Dean’s grip is firm and warm and his own sleeve is a little longer than needed anyway, and he’s wearing fingerless gloves, and Castiel thinks it’s better if their skin doesn’t touch.

“So you’re looking for a model?” Dean asks as he makes a gesture for Gabriel to come over. “How so?”

“As I’ve mentioned, I’m an art student,” Castiel explains, wondering where the hell should he be looking; not the eyes, not the hands, not the chest, not the table, _where?_ “I’m almost done for the semester, all I need is one painting and I’m finished. It’s one of an angel,” he says and he wishes he hadn’t, because what kind of subject is an angel, anyway? Dean is probably going to hate it, and maybe it’s better if Castiel doesn’t tell him, but then of course, Dean is bound to ask to see his own portrait at some point.

“That sounds cool,” says Dean, and Castiel lifts his head. “So, are you stuck or do you need practice?”

“Both,” Castiel admits. He stops to order a cup of hot chocolate to a lollipop-sucking Gabriel with a shifty look on his face, and waits until Dean has asked for a piece of apple pie and filter coffee.  

“So do you think I’m okay for the part?” Dean asks. “Because I know how you artists are, so if you don’t think I suit your mental image for your angel, it’s totally okay.”

You must not melt, you must not melt, Castiel reminds himself. “I don’t have a mental image for my angel, that’s the problem,” he says. “I’d be happy to have you pose for me, if you’re not mentally scarred from our conversations so far.”

Castiel is pretty serious about that phrase, but Dean laughs. “Trust me, I’ve seen worse,” he says teasingly and wow, he’s in the mood to tease.

“I don’t talk much when I paint, I promise,” Castiel reassures him and Dean laughs again.

Generally, it goes pretty well. Dean is okay with what Castiel can pay him, and he’s also very okay with posing naked, so they arrange their first meeting for the next day. Castiel, for some reason, spends the rest of the day tidying up his apartment and freezing his ass off as he makes sure the windows are open and the stench of smoke is far gone.

**December 5 th:**

Dean arrives a few minutes too early, and Castiel barely has time to put on pants and a sweater before he opens the door. Dean is in a good mood and he spends some time looking at the paintings around the apartment as Castiel makes coffee.

Castiel is very afraid of the small talk, but it seems there’s no need for that. Dean is a quiet guy, it seems, and he smiles gratefully when he takes the first sip of his coffee.

“Wow, this is a blessing, Cas,” he says, and Castiel is taken aback at the sudden nickname, but he only smiles. Dean grins at him and suddenly Castiel feels very lucky that he’s not the one undressing here. Dean drinks a bit more, cleans his upper lip with the lower one, puts his mug on Castiel’s desk and takes off his jacket. “So, where do you want me?”

“Uh…” Castiel realises he really has to answer that. “The bed. The bed would be nice.” He decides to pretend Dean didn’t laugh and wink at him, and sets his easel about six feet away from his bed. He brings the canvas and lets Dean see it.

“See, that’s more or less the pose I had in mind,” Castiel says, showing Dean the charcoal sketch.  Dean looks at it for a bit, frowning, and takes off the rest of his clothes. When he’s reached the point where the only bit of clothing on him is his black, very tight boxer briefs, he looks at Castiel.

“Do you need me to take those off?” he asks.

“No, no, no, that won’t be necessary,” says Castiel quickly and ducks behind his desk to get his colours and hide his blushing. “I only need the pose today.”

“I’m okay with taking them off, by the way,” Dean says, and Castiel bites his lip.

“Maybe next time,” Castiel breathes out.

Dean lies down, his body taking the pose Castiel was imagining without even trying. Castiel puts up a lamp making the perfect lighting and shuts the drapes behind Dean. He gets his brushes and paints and papers ready, puts up his canvas and rolls up the sleeves of his old oversized shirt whose colour is lost under layers and layers of paint.

Dean is a natural, Castiel thinks as his fingers become blacker and blacker from the charcoal and the shape of the angel on the canvas gets clearer. He’s standing still, his back on a couple of pillows, his left leg spread across the bed, his right one bent, barely touching the drapes behind it. His left fingers are holding the sheet under them, his right hand atop his abdomen, his face looking away, somewhere in the distance, his lips seductively half-open. Even though it’s cold outside and there’s not much of a heat in the building, Castiel feels the sweat on his forehead and wipes it with the back of his hand. He sees Dean’s green eyes flickering towards him and watches as a grin appears on his face; he realises his face must be all black now, but pushes himself to not care.

“Can I talk?” Dean asks quietly, as if speaking in a low volume will not make his muscles move.

“Sure,” Castiel says as he prepares a horrible greenish mix and takes out his thin brush, “I’m just making the outline.”

“What made you become an artist in the first place?”

Castiel’s brush stops. He thinks about it for a while. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess I didn’t have much choice in the subject.”

“Artist family?”

“Not at all,” Castiel chuckles bitterly. “I tried to be a priest or a scientist or a lawyer, I really did. It just wasn’t for me. I’d rather just… make things.” Wow. How articulate.

“A priest?” Dean asks, curiously, and he moves his head. He puts it back where it was after Castiel’s terrified look, and just moves his eyes towards him. “Did they want you to be one?”

Castiel laughs awkwardly. “You’re not very good with small talk, right?” he asks and immediately regrets it.

Dean frowns. “Sorry if I was rude, man,” he says. “I just don’t like talking about the weather. I’d rather know if you believe in aliens or something.”

Castiel laughs. “I actually prefer that too,” he admits. “And to answer your previous question, my father is a reverend, and he did want me to take over after him. He was counting on me, being the youngest, since my siblings disappointed him. It turned out that I was the most disappointing one of all.”

“Why, are you doing drugs?” Dean asks casually.

“Not really, no,” Castiel answers, surprised at how easily he says it.

“Are you womanizing a lot?”

Castiel can’t help laughing out loud at this, and Dean smirks.

“Gay?” he asks, and it’s probably the fact that his tone doesn’t change from the previous questions that makes Castiel answer “yes”.

After a pause, Castiel asks: “Isn’t it your turn to tell me something about you?”

“Like what?”

“Like why you decided to be a model? Maybe?”

“I didn’t exactly decide it either,” Dean answers after a moment, as Castiel washes his brush in the turpentine and mixes the next couple of colours he’s going to need. “I just posed for a friend once because I needed the money, and then for a friend of that friend, and well, it kinda stuck from then on. I still need the money, and I have no sense of shame anyway.”

“Do you like doing it?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t mind it. It’s fine for the mornings, before the work at the garage.”

Castiel blinks in surprise. Dean doesn’t look like the kind of guy that would work with cars. If anything, he would be covered in oil and pose half-naked for pictures; he’s got that kind of face. Castiel guesses people do have layers.

He keeps on painting, hoping, for some reason, to never end.

**December 6 th:**

Dean comes on time again, and finds the exact place on Castiel’s bed without trying. Castiel wonders for a moment if they’ll find anything to talk to today, but that doesn’t turn out to be a problem.

Dean is very proud of his little brother Sam, he says, he took a test yesterday and nailed it, and he still managed to get a girlfriend on the same day. Dean sounds generally very proud of his brother, and Castiel asks about him. He’s eighteen, Dean says, four years younger, and it’s only then when Castiel realises he’s the same age as Dean. Dean says his brother is a genius and he’s working to get him through college. Castiel doesn’t ask about their parents.

By the end of the session, the flat colours of the painting are ready. The pinks and oranges of Dean’s skin and the blue of the sheets and the lighter blue of the curtains and the whites and greys of the wall and the wings are done. The apartment stinks of turpentine and oil paint, and Castiel waits for Dean to get dressed so they can open the window and get some fresh, freezing air.

Castiel lights a cigarette and puts his sweater over his shirt. He decides to look at the colourful outline of his nails and the damn colours that form on his fingers that he never manages to mix properly unless it’s an accident. Dean borrows a cigarette too, and they just sit on the bed, freezing their asses off, and talk.

Dean asks about Castiel’s family, and when Castiel is reluctant, Dean says all he’s got is his brother and a few good family friends. Castiel, encouraged, talks about his strict father and his disapproving mother and his rebellious brother Balthazar who left home way too early and from whom Castiel hasn’t heard since. He talks about his oldest brother Michael, who is his father’s favourite but still didn’t want to be a priest, and about his sister Anna who tries so hard to find the middle ground between her family members.

They share stories from their lives over a few cups of coffee, until Dean realises it’s already dark outside and he should have been at the garage a while ago.

Castiel is left alone, staring at the unfinished painting.

**December 7 th:**

Today Castiel is working on the basic shading, and Dean is talking about movies. He says something about actually liking that Catwoman film, and Castiel chokes on his spit and threatens to draw Dean as a eunuch if he ever mentions that again. They get into a debate about comics, and Dean laughs as Castiel cringes at the mention of artist names which Dean worships because they’ve shaped his childhood, while Castiel detests because he believes they shouldn’t get paid for those abominations they create.

When Castiel says he’s only heard a couple of Led Zeppelin songs but he can quote the entire Bastille discography, and Dean answers “who the fuck is Bastille?” the painting is left aside. They order pizza and listen to some music. Castiel obsesses over Led Zeppelin; Dean remains silent.

As he leaves, he admits that Bastille are not so bad after all, and Castiel might have not made great progress with the painting today, but he still counts it as a success.

He stares at it and guesses he will have to stop imagining what’s underneath Dean’s underwear soon.

**December 8 th:**

Dean is a bit moody today. When Castiel asks why, at first Dean doesn’t talk. Castiel lets it go and keeps painting. He’s not really drawing Dean this time, he just likes having him there. the wings he draws are all from his imagination – he’s got a little something for wings, he can’t help it, he just thinks they’re an awesome thing to draw, so he needs no reference.

He stops only to curse as he bites the wrong end of a brush and spits oil paint and feels the damn thing on his face. Dean finally laughs at that, and asks to take a break for a piss. Castiel nods as he wipes the paint from his face with some toilet paper, only managing to spread the paint everywhere but the toilet paper.

When Dean comes back, he stares at the painting for a while.

“I wish I had those wings,” he mutters, “I could get the fuck away from here.”

Castiel turns to look at him, immediately hurt. What has he done? Dean looks at him and his eyes widen.

“No, no, Cas, I didn’t –“ he sighs. “Great, I’m such an asshole. I didn’t mean _here_ here, I meant… ugh, things are a bit weird with my family, that’s all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Castiel asks hesitantly.

“I don’t know,” Dean murmurs as he gets back on the bed, managing the exact same position as before, and Castiel has no idea how he manages that. “My dad just called, and he said he wants to see us after all this time, and… I don’t know. It’s bad.”

“I’ll be here, if you need to talk to someone,” Castiel says quietly, and keeps adding detail to the painting.

Dean nods, and doesn’t say anything else.

When the session is over and Castiel can feel the awkwardness running through his veins, Dean looks at the painting again.

“It’s turning out really awesome, Cas,” he says. “Is it finished?”

“No, it just needs the details and then it’s over,” Castiel answers.

“Awesome. So tomorrow I’m gonna see the final result?”

“Actually,” Castiel says, “it’s gonna take a while for the oil to dry so I can work with the small brush and get a better result. It will be ready to work on in about a week or so.”

Dean blinks a couple of times, and does he look… disappointed? “Oh,” he says. “Okay. I understand. So, see you in a week? Or do you want to do the details on your own?”

“No, no, I’d love to see you in a week,” Castiel blurts out. “To… finish the painting.”

“Sure. Yeah. See you then,” Dean says.

“Call me if you need anything,” Castiel calls after him as Dean gets out of the apartment and walks down the stairs.

Castiel starts to wonder when the hell did he start caring for Dean so much and puts a cigarette in his mouth. He looks at the painting again and decides not to light the damn thing and go spend the rest of the evening in the bathroom instead.

**December 9 th:**

Castiel really misses Dean.

**December 10 th:**

Castiel really, REALLY misses Dean. He wonders whether he should call and check if Dean’s alright, but he ends up staring at the painting and trying to read a book whose title he can’t even recall, and learning to _almost_ play Stairway to Heaven in the guitar he hasn’t touched for a couple of years.

 **December 11 th**:

Castiel can’t resist anymore. He sends Dean a text, asking him if everything’s okay. He spends the few hours that it takes Dean to answer biting his nails and regretting it because oil paint is difficult to remove and it’s just stuck there forever, Castiel guesses, that’s good because he always wanted a tattoo of sorts. Dean answers that no, nothing’s okay, but thanks for asking. He sends a second text immediately, saying that the previous one wasn’t sarcastic, he really does thank Cas for asking, and he really appreciates it, and he can’t wait until the 15th. Castiel whimpers when he reads that, and he’s unfortunate enough to be holding a dip pen which sort of explodes on his paper and turns black his entire face.

Castiel goes to the bathroom to clean the ink off and ends up doing something else entirely.

**December 12 th:**

Okay, this can’t go on.

Castiel hasn’t even known Dean for long, and he doesn’t even know him that much. He can’t have feelings. It’s just a crush.

And he can’t freaking turn the goddamn painting towards the wall or cover it because the oil hasn’t dried.

He thinks about damaging it so Dean can come and model for him a bit more.

He slaps himself and takes a walk, trying to get Dean out of his mind.

He fails.

He goes to see a movie. Halle Berry is in it. He thinks of Catwoman and of Dean and he groans so loudly the teenagers behind him throw him popcorn. He eats the ones that landed on his shirt and leaves the theatre before the middle of the movie. He couldn’t concentrate anyway.

He decides not to text Dean.

**December 13 th:**

Castiel almost has a heart attack, because Dean texts him first, and that’s not a thing that happens in his world.

The text says “is the paint dry yet”. Castiel guesses there’s a question mark floating in the network, and he answers “not yet”, before he thinks about it. He bangs his head on the wall, groaning in pain and despair as he realises what he’s just done. In his defence, it’s ten in the morning and it’s Saturday and he hasn’t had coffee yet. His fingers almost tangle as he frantically sends a “but you can pass by if you want to talk”, again before he thinks about it. He bites his lip as he makes coffee and waits for the next message.

The answer comes soon: “nah its ok thx”.

Not good enough. Castiel needs to take this step. He’s not a kid anymore. He pours himself some coffee and takes a big gulp. He coughs, but he’s still proud to manage to only burn his oesophagus and not his tongue.  He writes: “You know what? I checked and it’s dry. You can come. I need to give in the painting asap.” He presses send before he regrets it.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but the answer is “ok”. His heart beats fast, and he doesn’t realise where time went and how did Dean manage to knock at his door so quickly.

Castiel opens the door and he’s sure he’s all flustered. Dean looks terrible. He smells faintly of alcohol and smoke.

“I can’t do it, Cas,” he murmurs as he comes into the apartment, no hellos, not anything. “I can’t stand my dad.”

“What happened?” Castiel asks.

“He appeared after we hadn’t seen him for months and –“ Dean stops, too frustrated to form words.  Castiel doesn’t know why, but he reaches for Dean’s shoulder and squeezes it sympathetically, not knowing what to say. Dean half-smiles. “It’s just hard, you know? He came back drunk, asking for money. All we’ve got saved is for Sammy to go to college. I can’t talk to Sam about these things, he’s too young. He’ll always be too young. And I don’t know what’s happening to me. Lately I’m feelin’ the only person I can talk to is you, and it’s weird because I don’t even know you and you probably think I’m crazy.”

“No, I really don’t,” Castiel says. “Everyone goes through tough times, and –“

“Should I take my clothes off?”

Castiel blinks. “Excuse me?”

“For the painting. Are you going to paint me today? You said the paint had dried.”

“Oh.” Castiel feels really stupid. “Yeah. Okay. Sure. Go ahead. I’ll – I’ll bring the colours. You, er… you get comfortable.”

“Ok.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”

“I just really want you to paint me right now,” says Dean as he takes off his jacket and his shirt and for some reason, Castiel can only imagine painting _on_ him.

The reason is his lust, FYI.

Castiel goes to the corner and changes his sweater to his painting shirt. He feels the winter chill on his exposed skin and gets a shudder across his spine. He brings his acrylic colours to make the details, knowing very well he’s about to create an abomination made from oils and acrylics on the same canvas. Dean is already sprawled on the bed, even though he’s missed it a bit this time; the sheet is covering half his abdomen, his crotch, and his left thigh.

“Um,” Castiel starts, “would you mind taking off your underwear today? I need to do the details.”

“Can we avoid it?” Dean asks, and it must be really cold outside, because Dean’s face is red all over, even though Castiel didn’t notice it before. He brings close the electric heater and turns it on, creating all kinds of beautiful orange shades on Dean’s skin.

“I thought you had no sense of shame,” Castiel tries to tease.

“Can you at least wait a bit?” Dean murmurs and turns even redder. Castiel’s eyes widen as realisation hits him.

“Oh,” he says numbly. “Oh. Okay.” _Don’t imagine things, you moron_ , he tells himself, _it’s just cold, that’s all_.

“Do you, uh…” Dean starts, and Castiel is determined to look anywhere but Dean’s way, “do you work out?”

It’s the first time in Castiel’s life that somebody’s actually asked him this. He thought this question was an urban legend. Apparently he was wrong.

“I run a bit,” he says, purposefully indifferent. “Why?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Dean mutters. “Your, uh, your back. Your back looks good.”

“Oh. Thanks. You look really good yourself. I mean, you obviously do. You’re a model. I’ve just been drawing you for a while and haven’t mentioned it. Which I usually don’t mention because people take it the wrong way. Me being gayer than a Christmas tree and all.” _Jesus Christ, Castiel, shut up_.

“Thanks,” says Dean, and why the hell haven’t they started painting again? “I sort of have the same problem, you know, ever since I came out as bi. I can’t really compliment anyone.”

Castiel swallows and almost chokes. “Oh, you’re…”

“Yup.”

“You’d never mentioned that.”

“No. No, I hadn’t. I should have.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I should have. In case you wanted to, uh –“

“Dean, are you asking me –“

“In case you wanted to ask me out or anything. It would be okay. I’m not the ‘no homo’ kind of person. That’s all.”

Damn it, Dean looks shy, and Dean doesn’t usually look shy, and did that fight with his father make him go nuts?

“Dean, do you want me to ask you out?”

“Do you want me to do it?”

“I can’t ask you out, I’ve already seen you naked,” Castiel says, without knowing why. He realises his hands are all black, because he’s turned a piece of charcoal into dust between his fingers.

“No, you’ve seen me _nude_ ,” says Dean. “Nude is artistic. Naked is when you’re up to something.”

“I can’t do that,” says Castiel and he wants to slap himself. _Go for it, you idiot,_ his brain says, along with another part of his body. _Go for it._ But he just can’t. “You’re upset. You’re only here because you’re in a bad state of mind, and I’ll gladly help you, but not like this. You don’t really want this”.

“Yes, I do,” Dean insists, and sits up. “My father is a miserable man, Cas. I saw him and I hated his guts. He’s denied everything that makes him happy, he gave it all up after my mother died. Because he thought it was best. You know what’s he’s like now? He’s living off borrowed money and alcohol and he hates everything. He was always missing his chances. Well, I don’t wanna lose mine. So here it is. I won’t be an idiot anymore. I was really hoping you’d ask me out. Or something. I didn’t want to do it because it’s weird. Models that pose in the nude already have a bad reputation in the campus, that we’re whores, which is stupid. I didn’t want to make you think badly of us. We don’t sleep with anyone we pose for. I’m not a whore, and I’ve never done this before. I just really like you, okay? And I wish you kept painting me. And I’m sorry to be so blunt.”

Castiel stares at Dean for a while.  Dean is tapping his fingers on his thigh and biting his lip, and Castiel just can’t handle it.

“I think it’s time for you to remove that underwear,” he says calmly.

Dean looks at his crotch and then back at Castiel. “You’re gonna keep on painting me? After all this?”

“If you want to keep your pose, that could work out, but I had something else in mind,” Castiel says.

Dean looks at him in disbelief. “Are you joking? Because I don’t want a pity-fuck.”

“Dean, the paint isn’t even dry,” Castiel sighs. “I just really wanted you to come.”

Dean stares for a moment, and laughs. Castiel takes a step towards him, but Dean gets up first and he grabs Castiel’s shirt. Castiel puts his hands around Dean’s neck and he feels Dean’s palms on the small of his back. Castiel doesn’t know who leans forwards first, but they do, and their mouths fit perfectly together. Dean tastes like coffee and he smells like leather and sweat and Castiel just loves it. He feels Dean laugh into his mouth.

“What?” he asks, laughing.

“You smell like paint,” Dean says fondly. “I should have expected it, but it’s funny.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that,” he says and reaches for his palette, puts some blue paint on his fingers and, going completely out of anything his brain has been making him do for the past twenty-two years, he spreads it across Dean’s chest and ooh, that feels nice.

Dean stares at him. “This means war,” he declares, and grabs Castiel’s shirt, forcing him out of it, despite Castiel’s protests. Dean takes the palette and presses it on Castiel’s chest, smiling triumphantly. At Castiel’s astonished yelp, Dean just kisses him again.

God. They’re already acting like a couple.

Castiel doesn’t really mind.

As the clothes leave the picture, Castiel finds himself lying on the floor, with Dean atop him, kissing like there’s no tomorrow, groping everything he can and _being_ groped in places whose existence he had forgotten. They both become dirtier and dirtier by the minute, spreading paint between them with every touch.

As they try to switch places, Dean grabs something to hold on to, and screams. Castiel looks up, and Dean has a terrified expression on his face. His hand is covered in oil paint.

Castiel sits up. The painting is right there, only it’s got a huge handprint, kind of smudged, all across angel-Dean’s unfinished crotch, his legs, and the bed. Castiel looks at it, and then at Dean, who looks like the world has just ended.

“You know what,” Castiel says, “that means you’ll have to pose a little more for me to make it again.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, and then laughs. Then Castiel has an oily handprint on his cheek and for the first time, doesn’t care if it’ll take a while to take it off.

**December 22 nd:**

The painting remains as it is, with the handprint across the unfinished angel’s privates. The teacher says it’s an amazing example of creativity and that it was an excellent idea to interact with the painting like that. Castiel gets an A.

Castiel isn’t sure if Dean hears that information, though, because he’s concentrating hard when he’s drawing. And when his painting is breathing and talking to him, it becomes even more difficult.

Castiel doesn’t complain. His turn is coming soon.


End file.
